Four people. Two couples. One group project. By week twelve, I'd be lying to all of them.

I don't know that yet. What I know is Tuesday evening, library, and a boy I barely know is reading my handwriting from across the table.

"You use purple ink," he says. "It's visible."

Elliot Sayer. My best friend's boyfriend. English lit major. I've said "hey" to him maybe fifteen times at parties. He's said "hey" back maybe twelve. The other three times he was mid-sentence in a book and didn't hear me, which Petra finds annoying and I find... I don't know. Something.

I didn't know it was something until right now. Right now he's telling me he could see my annotations from three rows back in the lecture hall, and a small hitch catches in my ribs. Like snagging a sleeve on a doorknob. Someone noticed my notes. Someone read them.

"You underlined the section about parasocial community bonds," he says. Not an accusation. An observation. Precise. Like he's returning a fact he borrowed.

"I didn't think anyone was paying attention."

"I was paying attention."

Four words. Neutral delivery. No subtext, no flirtation, just a boy telling a girl he was watching her write, and somehow that's the most intimate thing anyone has said to me in months.

My boyfriend is next to me. Caleb Whitford. Golden boy. Rowing team captain. He's on his phone, thumbs moving in the group chat with his teammates, and he hasn't looked up since we sat down. He's warm and familiar and present the way furniture is present.

Petra, my best friend, left twenty minutes ago. "Text me what I should read," she said, squeezing Elliot's shoulder on the way out. Before that, she contributed a genuinely good idea about influencer communities as parasocial clusters, which reminded me that she's brilliant when she focuses. Caleb left ten minutes after. "You've got this, babe," he said, kissing my temple. The golden boy grin. It works on everyone.

It used to work on me.

It's just us now. Elliot and me. The fluorescents hum. His pen scratches against paper.

Sociology 314. Sixteen weeks. One paper. I've been the "dependable one" in every group project since seventh grade.

But this is the first time the other dependable one is looking at me like my ideas are worth remembering.

"Your idea about parasocial relationships as a form of community formation," he says, not looking up from his notebook. "It's good. The Horton and Wohl framework is outdated, but your application to digital spaces is original."

I stare at him. Nobody has ever had an opinion about my research angle. Not Caleb. Not Petra. Not even my advisor, who mostly nods and says "interesting."

"You read Horton and Wohl?"

He looks up. Gray-green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Freckles across the bridge of his nose. Hair that's slightly too long, falling across his forehead. He pushes his glasses up with one knuckle.

"I read everything."

We work for another hour. Side by side. He types quietly. I write by hand. At one point I catch him looking at my purple ink annotations, tracing the argument I'm building, and he nods. Once. Small. Like he's having a private conversation with my margin notes.

Nobody has ever had a private conversation with my margin notes.

I go home to Caleb's apartment. He's on the couch, SportsCenter on, scrolling through Instagram. He asks how the library was. I say "fine." He nods. Goes back to his phone. I sit next to him and he puts his arm around me. Warm. Familiar. Automatic.

He doesn't ask what the project is about. He doesn't ask what I underlined.

I'm brushing my teeth when I remember what Elliot said. Word for word. The Horton and Wohl framework is outdated, but your application to digital spaces is original. I can hear his voice saying it. The specific cadence.

I spit. Rinse. Stare at myself in the mirror.

I can't remember the last thing Caleb said to me today.